


I'll Carry a Blanket and Keep You Safe With Me

by robpatFF



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 19:12:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robpatFF/pseuds/robpatFF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis buys them His and Hers blankets. It turns into A Thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Carry a Blanket and Keep You Safe With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own anything, am not associated with anything. Title from Blue Horizon.

The blankets start out as a joke. 

It must be a joke, because Louis has his trademark grin on his face, mischievous and slightly mocking, when he shoves the pink blanket at Harry. 

Harry’s half asleep, curled up in one of the airport chairs and blinking up at Louis with bleary eyes. “Um, thanks?” he croaks out, unfolding the thing and draping it over himself. He starts to close his eyes again when Louis pokes him in his side.

He’s holding his own blanket, matching exactly to Harry’s except it’s blue. He waggles his eyebrows and looks like he’s waiting for Harry to reach the punchline.

He doesn’t.

Louis sighs, holds it up. “They _match_ , Haz,” he says. As if he’s so fucking scandalized that Harry couldn’t see that on his own.

“Yes, Louis, I got that,” Harry tells him. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

Louis has a way of looking at people as if they belong on the soles of his shoes and not a single place else. He levels the look at Harry, though it’s tinted with the barest hint of fondness. “My plane’s boarding. I wanted to say goodbye before I left.”

“Oh.” Harry swallows against the lump that forms in his throat. It’s silly really, the way he knows already that he’ll miss Louis like a limb. It’s only for three weeks though, and they’re all gasping for a break. “I’ll walk you over.” 

He scrambles up, bones protesting and joints cracking. He grabs one of Louis’ bags out of habit, slinging it over his shoulder. They walk through the seats with Louis stopping to hug the rest of the boys, all of them looking rumpled and exhausted. Harry’s feet feel like lead as they walk through the terminal, each step bringing them closer to being apart. It feels like he’s been stuck to Louis’ side for months now, because he honestly has been. 

Louis grabs his bag from Harry at the gate and gives him a toned down version of his usual grin. “Well, this is good--” He cuts himself off when Harry barrels into him, arms wrapped tight round his torso and fingers clinging to his shirt. “Alright, Haz?” 

Harry nods into Louis’ neck, breathes in deep. He can smell his own cologne clinging to Louis’ skin, the way it mixes and smells like the both of them. Louis can’t help himself, he has to take a little piece of everyone with him wherever he goes. It will be Harry’s downfall soon enough, if it’s not already.

“‘m fine,” Harry mumbles. “Just trying to play up the bromance for any cameras.”

Louis laughs, strained but genuinely amused. Harry prides himself on knowing all the nuances of Louis, all the subtleties and layers that other people will never see. 

“You are such a lying little shit,” Louis tells him, and Harry shrugs, guileless. The intercom buzzes again and reminds them that Louis’ flight is boarding. “I’ve got to go, Hazza.”

Harry has to stop himself from gripping Louis tighter, from forcing him to fly back home with Harry. “Glad I’m getting a break from you,” he says, going for light but hearing the way his voice cracks. “Tired of your feet smelling like shit.”

“That’s how I feel about having to wade through all your posh blazers and scoop neck shirts every morning,” Louis teases back. He’s always been better than Harry at hiding his feelings, but they’re made obvious in the way that his hand lingers at Harry’s side, fingers stroking the skin that peeks between his shirt and the waistband of his trousers. 

The announcer makes a last call for Louis’ flight, and both of them turn to stare at the gate, reluctant. “You never said thank you for your blanket,” Louis says. “It’ll be like we’re together even though we’re not.”

Harry snorts, plays with the seam of the blanket. “You got us His and Her blankets, that’s what this is? The fans will love this.”

“We’ve got to live up to Larry Stylinson, Harry,” Louis tells him. “So you better use yours every night.”

Harry gives him a mock salute. “I won’t go anywhere without it.”

He tries not to watch Louis’ throat when he swallows, the way he glances at the gate and sighs. “I’d better be going.”

Harry nods, eyes trained on his shoes, hair falling into his face. He inhales Louis’ scent one last time when Louis steps closer and pushes his hair out of his face. “Don’t break any hearts while I’m gone, Curly.”

“Never,” Harry says, and then Louis is gone through the gate.

Harry ignores the way his fingers grip the blanket tight, the soft material digging warm and soft against his skin. 

\-----

Harry loves being home. His mum fusses over him, more than she ever did before, letting him get away with laying around on the sofa and skipping out on chores. Gemma makes up for it, teasing him about the way he walks around the house wrapped in that pink blanket. 

He doesn’t say why he’s got it, why he buries himself in it while he’s eating and watching TV and even hanging it on the rack while he’s showering. His mum never asks, though Harry catches her looking, eyes lingering at the curled lettering of the _Hers_ that gives it all away. He could say it’s all a joke though, good way to fuck with some of their more observant fans.

But there’s a voice in the back of Harry’s head that tells him that none of his fans can see him now. That he doesn’t need the blanket while he’s watching a movie or laying in bed. That doesn’t stop him from doing it though, breathing in the soft cotton so often his mind starts believing he can actually smell Louis on it. 

It’s been a week and a half before Harry lets himself miss Louis properly. He misses all the boys, of course, they’re like family now. But Louis is so much more than just _family_. Louis lives with him and makes him laugh and touches Harry --god, he touches Harry like it’s _nothing_ \-- until sometimes Harry thinks he’ll actually stop breathing if he ever moves his hands away. 

His fingers ghost over the numbers that will let him hear Louis’ voice, ghost over letters that spell out far too much and far too little at the same time. 

It’s been a week and a half and it’s midnight and Harry finally lets himself dial.

“Hazza?” Louis’ voices comes through the receiver, scratchy and thin. He’d been asleep.

“What the fuck are you sleeping for?” Harry asks him, pressing a hand to his own chest as if that will slow down his heartbeats. “It’s only midnight, you know.”

Louis yawns, loud and obnoxious. Harry can imagine how he looks now, all sleep-rumpled and soft. His hair is probably an absolute mess, and Harry positively _aches_ to see him. “Some of us have been flying around the world, Harry. You seem to have forgotten.”

Harry leans back on his bed, squirming around until he’s comfortable. It seems like he’s always got one hand clenched in that blanket now, so he doesn’t even have to look for it. “Or maybe you’re just getting old, Boo Bear.”

“God, you are such a little shit,” Louis tells him. “I haven’t missed you at all.” 

It’s almost amazing how strongly Harry knows that’s not true. “Since when are you that bad of a liar?”

“Did you call me just to insult me?” Louis asks him. “It’s quite rude, you know.”

It’s scarily easy to fall back into that easy banter with Louis. They’ve always had such an easy time of it, clicking almost as soon as they were put together. They talk until their voices are hoarse, until they’ve run out of things to say but even the quiet makes Harry’s body flush with contentment. 

“Hey,” Louis says, breaking the silence. “Have you been using your blanket?”

Harry swallows hard. He’s never really associated the blanket with anything less than innocent, but the fact that Louis’ asking about a blanket Harry has almost personified makes it almost filthy in context. The blanket’s been draped over him for days and days now, caressed and fondled within an inch on its life, seams puckering from where Harry can’t stop fiddling with it. 

Harry feels the breath rush from his lungs when he thinks about it, his blood rushing south. It’s just that he misses Louis so _much_ and all he has is this fucking blanket. 

“I, um.” He clears his throat, presses a hand to his crotch and nearly groans. “It’s very warm, actually. And soft.”

Louis makes a pleased sound and Harry almost bites his tongue off. “I thought so too. My mum thinks it’s cute that we got matching ones and all. What’s your mum say? You know they love that sort of thing.”

The thought of his mum calms Harry down a bit. “I didn’t mention it to her,” he confesses. “I didn’t want it to be a thing.”

“What do you mean a thing?” Louis asks him, and Harry holds back a sigh. It’s not a thing for Louis. It’s all a game to him, a way to make the fans crazy, to make _Harry_ crazy. “How is a blanket a thing?”

“God, Louis, I don’t know,” Harry complains. His prick is absolutely aching and Louis is an idiot. “A _thing_. Like a ‘why are you walking around with a pink blanket from Louis’ thing’.” 

Louis laughs and Harry can’t resist pushing up into his hand, feeling the rough flannel of his pajamas drag across his dick. He gasps at the sensation, muffling it with a cough.

“Walking around the house?” Louis repeats. “Bit gay, don’t you think? It’s a pink blanket, Harry.”

It’s a little more than a bit gay, Harry wants to tell him, but his mouth won’t cooperate and he can’t seem to stop from rubbing his dick up against the palm of his hand. It’s just that Louis is so _stupid_ and Harry wants him more than anything, wants him right here beside him, touching him instead of Harry using his own hand.

“You there, Haz?” Louis asks. “Or did you finally fall asleep on me?”

Harry tries to gather his thoughts into something other than _oh fuck, that feels good_. “No, I’m--I’m here. Just tired, I guess.” He fakes a yawn, almost cringing at how exaggerated it sounds. “It’s been a long day.”

“Right,” Louis says. He sounds unconvinced, which isn’t surprising. They both know each other far too well. “Well, I’ll let you get to sleep then.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, but it comes out much breathier than he means, and he can’t help the way his breath hitches. The slow grind of his hand is the best sort of torture but Harry is desperate to get off, and he’s not near brave enough to do that with Louis still on the phone. “I should really get some sleep.” He presses down a little more, shivers at the unexpected pleasure that snakes up his spine.

“You sure you’re okay?” 

“‘m fine, Louis,” Harry whines, because he loves talking to Louis but right now he wants him to hang up more than anything. “Guess I just didn’t realize how tired I was.”

Louis sighs, but he doesn’t call Harry on his bullshit. “Alright. Sweet dreams, Hazza.”

Harry doesn’t bother responding, just clicks off and squeezes his cock through the material, hips bucking up into his hand. It takes less than a minute for him to come, chest heaving, free hand fisted into that goddamn blanket. Harry glares at it before he shucks it off the bed. 

It’s only a joke anyway.

\-----

Harry wishes it wasn’t a joke.

The thing is, Harry loves being home. He loves his mum and Gemma and being around his family.

But the second he pulls up in front of his and Louis’ complex, it’s like nothing could ever compare to this. To know Louis is in there, knowing that Harry doesn’t have to spend another day pretending not to miss him desperately, well, it’s kind of making Harry’s head spin.

His fingers shake against the knob, and Harry takes a moment to calm himself. The blanket hangs halfway out of his bag, pushed in at the last second because he almost didn’t want to let it go. He runs his hand over the soft material once, for luck or something stupid like that, and opens the door.

Louis’ burning something in the kitchen, that much Harry can tell. He’s only just learned how the stove works, and Harry’s had him under strict instructions to stay away from it unsupervised. Louis’ like a child in that way, always breaking the rules.

Harry absolutely adores him.

“Are you trying to burn the flat down?” Harry calls out, dropping his bags by the door and heading towards the kitchen. He hears something drop and probably break, and then Louis is bounding through the doorway, arms wide and grinning.

“Hazza!” he yells, face twisted into this stupid smile that makes Harry turn it back on him. “My darling curly-haired Hazza.”

“Hi, Louis,” Harry intones, fighting to keep his tone dry. It’s hard to do when he’s got an armful of Louis Tomlinson. “I see you’ve been naughty today. I told you about the stove.”

“You told me about the stove, yes.” Louis steps back, grins at Harry again before he goes back into the kitchen. “It’s this fancy new invention that cooks things at the speed of light.”

“Please stop talking.”

Louis makes a show of zipping his lips, throwing the key toward Harry and doing that stupid eyebrow thing when Harry pretends to put it in his pocket. Harry sighs and does his best to act annoyed, because that’s what they do, and that’s what people like to see. 

“What are you even trying to make?” he asks, choking a bit at the smoke in the kitchen. “You didn’t think to open a window?”

No one ever sees Louis get exasperated, which is partly why Harry gets so much amusement out of it. His eyebrows crinkle up so comically, face blotched red, and Harry can’t help but laugh.

“It’s not funny you know,” Louis tells him, lifting up a window and throwing a look at Harry. “Can’t sing if you’ve just got done inhaling smoke.”

Harry fights the smile off his face, feels it twitching at the edges of his mouth. “You’re absolutely right, Louis. How careless of me. Really. So irresponsible.”

“You are an absolute shit, have I told you that?”

“Many, many times actually.”

“Good.”

The thing is, they can’t stop grinning at each other. Harry can’t be mad about the stove and the smoke --he almost considers getting angry when the alarm starts to trill-- when they can’t stop fucking smiling. 

They air out the kitchen together, hips bumping and arms getting tangled as they wipe up the mess. Harry has to manhandle Louis out on the balcony, anything to get away from the stale air still floating around in the flat. He grabs his blanket on the way out the door out of habit, the soft fuzzy cotton a familiar feeling in his hand. 

Louis’ already shivering like Harry knew he would be, but he’s trying his best not to show it. His arms are prickled with goosebumps that Harry wants to run his fingers over. Instead he sidles up close to Louis’ back so they’re back to chest and wraps the blanket around both of them. 

He can see Louis’ breath when he exhales a laugh, fingers hooking at the ends of the blanket and pulling it closer. “Such a sap, Haz.” 

“You’re the one who gave me the stupid thing,” Harry tells him. He’s starting to regret their positions now, the way his front is pressed right up against Louis’ bum. It shouldn’t be making him so breathless, seeing Louis with this blanket, with _Harry’s_ blanket, but it is.

Louis burrows in deeper so that Harry’s basically draped over his back. “It smells like you,” he says. 

“Well, who the hell else would it smell like?”

Louis elbows Harry once, sharp and discouraging. “I saved you from burning in a fire today, I’ll have you remember.”

“I thought being a fireman was Liam’s thing?” Harry teases. He regrets it when Louis spins around and starts digging his fingers into Harry’s ribs. He can’t help the hysterical laughter that falls from his mouth. “Okay! Okay, I take it back!”

It takes awhile for his breathing to go back to normal, for his cheeks to stop hurting from laughing so hard. Louis has taken the blanket for himself now, almost drowning in how big it is huddled around him. His hair is mussed from tackling Harry, strewn over his forehead haphazardly. His t-shirt is stretched at the neck, showing off his collarbones. He grins at Harry, easy and mocking and gentle all at once. 

“Pussy got your tongue, Curly?” Louis says.

And Harry loves him so much it hurts. 

He can’t help the way his feet move forward, hesitant but determined. Louis backs up against the balcony fence, confused but amused, open to whatever is going through Harry’s mind. The blanket hangs limply around him, and suddenly Harry can’t hold back any of his feelings. 

“Why did you have to give me this stupid blanket, Louis?” He’s not really asking, he already knows. It’s for the fans, for the girls, for the goddamn cameras. “You don’t know how crazy it made me.”

Louis sucks in a breath, licks his lips. 

“I thought about you every fucking day,” Harry confesses. His hands rest at Louis’ side, gripping his hips tight. “I carried that blanket around everywhere. A stupid, pink blanket.”

Harry flushes, wants to stop talking, wants to hide in his room but Louis is here and Harry just wants and wants and wants. 

“I even--” He swallows hard, can’t look Louis in the eye. “That night we were on the phone. I--I got myself off. Couldn’t even let go of the fucking thing because it made me feel closer to you.”

And Louis is just _standing_ there like Harry hasn’t just told him he wanked over a blanket, like he hasn’t just confessed how utterly besotted he is with him. 

“Are you going to say anything? I mean, tell me to fuck off or some--”

Louis kisses him. It’s less of a kiss, more of their teeth clacking together, desperate. Harry can’t really keep up, his brain on a constant loop of _is this really happening._

It takes awhile for him to remember that he’s supposed to be kissing back, and he tries to right that as fast as he can. He regains some semblance of control, pushing Louis into the fence, smiling when he makes a pained sound at it digging into his back.

“Why didn’t you just say something?” Louis asks him, unbearably out of breath and looking down at where Harry’s fingers are fiddling with the zipper on his jeans. “Christ, Hazza, we could have been doing this so much sooner.”

Harry drops to his knees, mouthing at the crotch of Louis’ jeans, desire and want and unbelievable neediness making him clumsy and loose and unable to think of anything other than getting Louis off. “And what exactly are we doing?” Harry struggles to get Louis’ pants down a bit, groans at the sight of his dick. “And why didn’t _you_ just say something?”

“I bought us matching His and Hers blankets, Harry. It was a bit obvious on my part.” Louis gasps, fingers white where they grip the railing behind him. “Your _mouth._ ”

Harry grins, looks up at Louis from where he’s kneeling on the cold pavement. He looks so fucking stupid, dick sliding between Harry’s puffy lips, shirt rucked up over his stomach and a pink blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Harry swallows his laugh, takes Louis a little deeper. Something tells him they should talk this out first, figure out what they want, but Harry’s already got a dick in his mouth, and he’s hardly going to stop now. 

“Jesus, you are as good at this as I imagined you’d be,” Louis mumbles, one hand coming to tangle in Harry’s curls, pull him closer, deeper. “Maybe better.”

Harry hums a little, eyes crinkling at the corners when Louis reacts to it, tugging Harry’s hair. It’s a bit surreal now, taking in the salty, bitter taste of Louis, when Harry hadn’t even let himself imagine them _kissing._ He’s not complaining about that though, nor the cold or the way his knees and jaw start to ache a little.

Louis starts to shake, breath hitching and coming out fast. “Fuck, Haz,” he whispers, legs trembling a little when he comes. Harry’s so caught up in Louis’ face, the flush across his cheeks that travels down his neck and chest, the way he squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip, Harry wants to see it all, wants to see it every second of every day.

He’s so enamored by the sight of Louis losing it that he nearly chokes when Louis comes. He struggles to swallow it down, can’t help the hysterical sound that rips out of him when some of it drips down his chin, clings to his skin. 

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” he croaks out. He presses his face against Louis hip, feels the embarrassed flame spreading across his cheeks and the back of neck. “I just--your _face_ , and I’ve been wanting this for so long, and it was all very overwhelming. Please don’t be mad.” 

Louis scoffs, and Harry can’t bear to look at him. His fingers back in Harry’s hair, touch gentle as he smoothes down his curls. “I’m not mad, Haz. The way that I come gets you overwhelmed, I completely understand.” 

Harry nearly chokes again, his neck snapping up so he can glare at Louis. He’s laughing of course, the bastard, and Harry’s heart clenches with something fond. “You are the biggest twat I have ever met.”

Louis wipes at his face and frowns before he tucks himself back in his jeans. He gestures towards Harry, miming at his own face. “You’ve got a bit of, uh--”

“Christ, I’ve got come on my face.” Harry scrubs at his skin before he feels Louis peeling his hands away, something soft wiping against his face. “And you’re wiping it off with my blanket.”

“What choice do I have?” Louis counters. “Jesus, Haz, what am I going to do with you?”

Harry shrugs, body still prickling with embarrassment. “Love me,” he mumbles.

“How could I not love a boy covered in my own come?” Louis teases, and Harry knows it’s all to make him uncomfortable.

He pushes the blanket away, buries his head in Louis’ shoulder. “So does this mean that sex between us is always going to be absolutely ridiculous?”

“Probably,” Louis tells him. He laughs then, this stupid thing that makes Harry smile against his neck. His whole body vibrates with it, shoulders shaking from where they lean back into the balcony. “I hope so. Always looking for a good laugh, you know.”

It all feels like a joke, really, this whole thing.

But Harry feels himself laughing too, humiliated and relieved and so utterly besotted with Louis, the way Louis’ hand skims over Harry’s back, reassuring and constant and solid, and he knows it’s so much more than a joke between them now.

The blanket lays ruined next to them, stained and filthy. 

Harry wants to keep it for the rest of his life.


End file.
